


Dark Pilot

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Pilot [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: DarkPilot, M/M, dark au, top!poe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe Dameron, TIE-pilot, is a loyal servant of his Emperor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Pilot

Poe Dameron tugs the helmet from his head, and sighs in relief. The air aboard the ship is recycled, repurposed, but it still tastes better than it does through his breathing apparatus. He knows his hair is somewhat depressed by the hours of constriction, and he rolls his shoulders to get some mobility back in his joints.

“Nice shooting,” he tells his gunner, aiming a finger-blaster at her, firing and then re-holstering it at his hip.  


“You lined me up,” she replies, still wearing her helmet.  


No matter how many times he tells her she doesn’t need to, she always sticks to protocol. Poe doesn’t need to, and if she feels more comfortable in anonymity (in public), then so be it. It’s her life, after all.

“We need to work on some more of that figure-eight maneouver, though. Next time?”  


“Sure.”  


“I’ll catch you same time tomorrow.”  


Poe drops his helmet onto his seat. He only ever wears it when he’s flying, and _his_ TIE-Advanced is his and his alone. No one would dare touch it. He leaves the gloves on, and saunters through the ship.

He makes a point of smiling at everyone. He always has. People are used to it, now. Some of them offer him deferential little head-bows (regardless of their relative difference in rank), some cheerily greet him (if no one is around who might disapprove), and others walk with stiffer, stuffier legs as far away from his _transgressive behaviour_ as they can. Poe - having more than a little Sith in him - makes sure he’s **extra cheery** around the people who are uncomfortable.

But he still means it. To everyone.

By the time he gets to the Emperor’s private suite of rooms, he’s in an even better mood. Flying always makes his blood thrum, and the new guy in his squadron is really growing into himself. There’s no threats on the immediate horizon, and everything is just swell. There hasn’t even been any rumblings from the last, faltering pockets of Resistance in a month or two. The Emperor is still worried (in private) that it means something is on the horizon, but Poe knows even if there is, they’ll handle it. Directly. Decisively. It’s what they do, and it’s why he’s the Emperor’s top bird-jockey. 

The doors swoosh around him in a blasteel wave, closing the moment he steps into the high-vaulted room. The first time they stood in here - the first time _Poe_ stood in here - he’d been marginally intimidated by the architecture. He figured that was the point, and he wondered how Kylo had managed all those years. All those long, hard years slaving ‘under’ the Supreme Leader. Called to report in front of a throne, on a dias, made with the express purpose of making the minion feel small and insignificant.

The room slopes, slightly. The lines are more angled than perspective alone would admit: the design a _trompe-l'œil_ that unsettles the mind just a little. The lines all focus in on the seat where the Emperor reigns supreme, elevated above the common-folk. Sitting in state, which is his right, which is his _destiny_.

Poe Dameron halts three ships’-lengths away, heels snapping smartly together, hands lightly clasped by his sides. 

Kylo Ren, leader of the Empire of the First Order and its subjugated systems… looks down at him. He is wearing his mask, which means that - likely - he’s been performing affairs of state. His gloved hands grip the armrests of his throne, and he leans forwards.

“Well, my pilot, what news do you bring?”  


“Nothing but the best, my Lord,” Poe replies, and puts one hand on his heart, bowing just gently. “The system is quiet, and obedient. Your rule is unquestioned.”  


It had been hard enough getting to this point, after all. Kylo had faced up against both Jedi and Leader to get where he was today. He says - over and over - that he could never have done it without Poe, and Poe likes to think maybe it’s partially true. Kylo, after all, is the one with the insane talent and power. He’s the one who can literally walk on water, or inside of minds. Poe… well. Poe has his talents, but those are three in number: an ability to fly anything with half an engine (and sometimes, memorably, less); a talent at making others follow him into battle, and - the most important one - a skill at keeping Kylo Ren (or whatever he was called at the time) _going_.

There had been no doubt, since they first met, that wherever one went, the other was sure to follow. Poe knows he’d follow Kylo to any afterlife and back. He’d probably charge right after him into a black hole, should his tall, troubled Force-sensitive ever decide that was the next destination. And had Poe refused to follow, he is certain Kylo would never have left the Republic, and their ‘Jedi’. But they had, and look how it had paid off.

“Come here,” Kylo commands, and Poe does.  


He strides the last few paces to stand at the foot of the throne. Kylo’s legs are parted, and he smiles when he feels the familiar swirl of _Force_ around him. It’s like directed air, or fingers without form. It’s as much Kylo as his body is, and Poe has always loved that about their relationship. Kylo lets him experience the Force, even though he’s not sensitive himself. 

Poe - still feeling Sithly - drops to one knee, and then looks up at his Emperor. And - because he can - he winks.

Emperor Kylo curls his fingers through the air, and Poe slides on his knees until they bump against the throne itself. Kylo’s legs are spread around him, and Poe leans to one side, resting his head on Kylo’s upper thigh. “Yes, my Lord?”

There’s nothing submissive about his tone whatsoever, and Kylo’s hand moves to card through his hair. “You’ve been loyal, as ever. Haven’t you? So… I should reward your duty. Your allegiance.”

Poe guesses what’s intended, and he can play along. He’s honestly happy whatever they get up to. Sometimes the Emperor likes to play the Leader. Sometimes he gets off on being bent over, face-first into his own seat of power. It’s whatever works at the time. Or - more accurately - whatever works _most_. And if right now, he wants Poe to play-act at being the subservient, loyal whelp? Then fair enough. Poe moves his hands to Kylo’s shins, and slides them up over the tall boots, under the r–

Kylo’s not wearing any pants. He’s wearing his overly-long outer robe, and his knee-high boots (the ones Poe loves to lick) and above that, his legs are bare. That sends a fierce bolt of lust through him, and his mouth starts to water. He gazes lovingly up at the man still stroking his hair, and his hands keep going up and up and up. Warm, supple thighs and then he walks his fingertips over the man’s… yes. Completely unclothed groin. He’s free-balling under black fabric, and Poe curls one hand around his shaft, the other cupping his balls. He purrs in appreciation, enjoying the silky-hard way his dick feels in his palm.

“Did I make my Lord wait too long?” he asks. He can’t see Kylo’s eyes, but he doesn’t need to. The man’s breathing hitches brokenly, and his balls tense in his grip as he continues to jack him slowly off. His fist tents the robes on each upswing, and the fingers that grip at his ears and jaw tense further.  


“Yes. Too long.” Hoarse, raspy, _wanty_. Kylo’s voice always betrays him, and even the mask can’t hide how much he wants this.   


Poe ducks back just enough to push his head under the fabric, and shoves his face right into his groin. He smells of lust and power, and Poe laps it up like it’s the only thing worth drinking in. A tongue out, and he’s licking between strokes; trying to get his Emperor as high as he can, as fast as he can. The hands on his head are at one remove because of the robes, but he can still feel them, and they silently request more. 

Kylo has a gorgeous cock. It’s just a shame he can’t see much, shrouded in darkness like this. Instead he has to remember how it looks, how it’s always so happy to see him. How it goes pink and firm under his ministrations, how it curls just slightly to the left when it sits on his belly. Only slightly, but enough to make Poe smile. It’s also a damned _big_ dick, which Poe **loves**. Long, and fat, and when he wraps his lips around the head and suckles for all he’s worth, his jaw aches if he keeps it up too long. Not as much as the sting when he bobs up and down, feeling it slide past teeth and over tongue and into his throat and brushing against what remains of his reflex, and…

…two legs up, and the heels of his boots fall on Poe’s back. He’s surrounded, and it feels fucking amazing. He keeps fisting over his shaft, twisting and turning and doing everything he knows how, to get Kylo off, and get him off hard. His Emperor has more stamina than most, and he knows he’ll have to play dirty to **really** make him whimper and scream. Like, say… pull his lips off, as he slams his hand down to his balls, and then - the new angle with his Emperor holding onto the arm-rests and bending almost in half as his knees curl over Poe’s shoulders… like how he can take that opportunity to lick lower. To drag and flick and suck at his balls, and take one into his mouth. He rolls it firmly, then lets it fall out. Butterfly kisses, then he’s onto the next.

Kylo isn’t talking, though the avocal noises he makes are indication enough of his enjoyment. 

And if there’s mask-deepened moans then, they only get worse when Poe dives like a gunner honed in on his target. He pulls hard on Kylo’s prick, making him bend even more double, and when he jabs his tongue into his Emperor’s hole… the **yowl** of guilty pleasure goes through him like a TIE through a field full of slow, unwieldy X-Wings. He makes his tongue into a spear, pounding him with all his jaw will allow, stroking his cock brutally hard. The fingers on his shoulders and the sense of heavy purpose in the air edges him higher, and he puts his other hand over Kylo’s cock to catch the inevitable spurt. 

Kylo always comes fast, when Poe eats him out. Something about the borderline filth of it, the _transgression,_ and he feels Kylo’s ass tense around him as he spurts. Poe keeps on stroking and licking until his lover is boneless and panting… and then he pulls his head from under the robes.

Peers up, at a masked face. A chest that gulps in breaths. Nothing above his waist is visible - no skin at all - and with his head free of that black prison, he can’t see any of Kylo. He can, however, _feel_ him. He rolls the sticky come around on his fingers, then jabs two straight into him. Kylo grabs the throne again, and he tilts his hips in and out of the touches, the stimulation almost too much. 

“Is that better, my Lord?” he asks, his voice rough from the intrusion of just before.  


Kylo… nods. And Poe slams a third finger in, spreading wide and fucking with all the power his wrist has. 

“Y-y-YES now will you **please** get on with it?”  


“Get on with what?” Butter would not melt in Poe’s mouth.  


“Shut gloating and fuck me,” Kylo insists.   


Poe laughs - loud and happy - and pulls his fingers free. He slides heavy, stiff black fabric up and out of the way, and unzips his own pants. Kylo’s arms reach up and behind him, and he grabs the throne for purchase as Poe slides in, slides home.

His Emperor. His. There’s only one seat he really belongs on, and that’s Poe’s. 

“My _Lord_ ,” he says, as he starts to fuck him in earnest.  


“ **POE** ,” says Kylo, as he settles in for the long-haul. His back arches as much as he can, as he bounces up and down on his cock. His cheeks are pink with hunger, his eyes almost shut on the wave of bliss he’s coasting. 

Poe normally makes him come at least twice, if he’s feeling uppity. Makes him **wait** if he’s feeling worse. The pilot rides his tight hole with all he has, and Kylo is a thrashing wreck before he’s even _half-way_ done.  


Pleased, as ever, that he can satisfy such a powerful man as Kylo Ren, Poe leans in, ripping the mask off, letting it fall to the floor so he can steal a kiss that tastes of ass and cock. Kylo’s cock. He pushes his tongue into his Emperor’s mouth, and the first shudder runs through him vicariously, head to toe.

Oh yes. He likes these moods maybe best of all. Kylo’s body welcomes him all the way inside, and he knows he’d be grounded for life if it was the only way to keep this beautiful thing his.

But - as his _thing_ is the Emperor - he won’t have to ever compromise at all.

It was worth the fall for that, and that alone. Poe would fall five hundred times more, if it meant he got to keep him all to himself. His Kylo. **His**.


End file.
